


Tarnished Silver

by Snowmane



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, post Fort Drakon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 17:37:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1950123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowmane/pseuds/Snowmane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rescue mission for Anora did not work out as planned. One of the Wardens was captured and brought to Fort Drakon and even if she managed to free herself in time, such things may weight heavily on someone already cought between a Blight and a civil war. He might not know about the latter, but had a fair share of the first in his life. And as silver-tongued as a Crow might be - sometimes a gesture is worth more than words.<br/>Title taken from the song "Tarnished Silver" by Heather Dale. I can only recommend it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tarnished Silver

**Author's Note:**

> Some fluff, two oversized canine companions and a bit of a headcanon ahead. Hope you enjoy it and if you find cruel mistakes in grammar or spelling, please tell me! I've got the feeling my English isn't getting any better these days, only worse.

_Allow me to make it simple for you, my Grey Warden: What comes next is entirely up to you._

He stops for a moment, waiting for the two chatting kitchen maids to pass before continuing his way down the corridor. Every here and there a torch creates flickering circles of light but as the darkest hour of the night draws near, more and more of them go out. There’s nobody around to replace them, most servants already fast asleep. Their work is hard, he knows this from more than one mission with the Crows, and there are more important things to do than keeping the lights burning in a nearly deserted guest wing.

_I was raised to take my pleasures where they can be found, for they do not come very often. I shall ask nothing more of you than you are willing to give._

The last rugs vanish underfoot and the walls grow empty. No drawings, no fancy furniture, just bare stone. Somehow, he thinks, it fits this country a lot better this way. Rough and grey as the undressed stones but just as durable. His eyes need a second to adjust to the lack of light; he speeds up his step afterwards. Even without anything covering the cold stone floor his footfall is silent. Nobody needs a noisy assassin.

And what about love? _She had asked, tilting her head ever so slightly. Not accusing him, not hurt by his lack of sentimentality. Such a simple question it seemed at the time. There was a love-bite at the nape of her neck and the wordplay amused him somehow. Still, he thought before answering, his mark looked good on her._

The door is locked from the inside but that never stopped a Crow before. Putting down his load for a moment he pulls out the lock pick and silently pushes the heavy oaken door open. Casting a quick glance down the corridor, he vanishes inside. With a faint click the latch snaps into place.

_I was born of a whore and bred as an assassin. All I know is of pleasure and death. What room is there in these things for love?_

The flames inside the fireplace are burning low, giving away only a faint reddish glow. Just as he expected the huge canopy bed is empty with the exception of rumpled sheets and a stray pillow on the floor beside it. There is a sad smile on Zevran’s face as he walks towards the embers, stepping over the sleeping Marbari and circumnavigating the silhouette of the giant wolf just beside him. She is sitting on the floor, wearing nothing but the old linen shirt and trousers she snuck from his washing a few weeks ago. Knees drawn up all the way towards her chest, arms tightly wrapped around them, pale cloth and even paler skin shining in the firelight. Her forehead rests against the still-warm wall of the fireplace, the dark hair hiding her face from his eyes. On another day he might have enjoyed the view, but not today. With a sigh Zevran puts the two mugs he has been carrying down at the nearest table. He then sits down behind her, pulling the other elf against him as firmly as he dares without squeezing the breath out of her.

_At any rate, we should be on our way. A new day awaits us. Or so the rumour goes._

They sit like this for a while, staring into the dying flames together until Troll, her Marbari, rises from his slumber to paddle over and rolls himself into a tight ball of muscle and painted fur right beside them. Ever the grudger, her wolf follows suit and Zevran finds himself pressed against the wall by too many ounces of canine compassion, Mahariel still in his arms. But his slightly irritated snort raises a small chuckle from her and finally she relaxes, letting go of her knees and tipping her head back to look at him. Their eyes meet for a second, his caramel brown being challenged by striking amber. In the dim light they seem to glow, but then the moment passes and all that’s left is a muddy sulphur colour, the dark circles under her eyes and chapped lips. The Warden looks so tired it actually hurts.  
“I’m sorry” she says, her voice hoarse and low. “I didn’t hear you coming.”  
“It’s fine. Not being heard is a specialty of mine, remember?” Zevran smiles, reaching out to touch her cheek, gently following the patterns of the _vallaslin_ with his thumb. She holds still for a while, her eyelids falling shut as he brushes strands of dark hair out of her face. Careful not to disturb her sleeping furry companions she wriggles out of his grasp to turn around and face him. It’s shocking how she manages to stay this innocent, smiling this special little smile of hers that is reserved just for him. He holds out his arms in response and she snuggles against him, hiding her face in his shoulder and effectively undoing his earlier effort to tame her hairdo. The last flicker of a flame catches in the gemstone on her left ear and with a now familiar ache in his chest Zevran smiles about their foolishness. It’s folly to fall in love with an assassin, but this woman is either too naïve or too stubborn to admit it. And the assassin himself? He is way past any point of return.

_We should move on now._

It’s too late for that. “You should be asleep by now, it was a long day. Especially for you”, the elf murmurs against the top of her head. When she does not answer, he pulls his left arm free and starts running his thumb over the ridge of her pointy ear. The Dalish stiffens, then shudders and finally presses her forehead against him, laughing softly. One of her hands comes up to grip his upper arm as if to stop him.  
“You’re not playing fair, Zev. Taking advantage of your opponent’s weakness like this.”  
He smiles to himself, letting go of her ear and taking her hand instead. The pads of the three fingers in the middle are rough and calloused, a telltale sign of her life as an archer. The scars around her wrist are new, though, and as his fingers rub over them she gives out a barely suppressed hiss. Brows furrowed he pulls her away from his chest. The fire has burned out and the dim starlight is not enough to see, not even for elven eyes. But he can feel the abused skin around her wrists just as well, his searching fingers finding other patches of fresh scars around her ankles. No need to see them, Zevran has witnessed the work of heavy metal chains often enough to imagine every ugly little detail.  
Suddenly the warmth is gone from the room; the sweet drowsiness vanished from his mind. Troll lifts his head as if he can sense the sudden change in the mood.  
They still had discussed how to save their leader from Fort Drakon as the doors flew open and the petite elf walked right into the room, clad in the heavy iron of Denerim’s city guard and splattered with blood. It felt as if a weight as heavy as the whole Vimmark mountains fell of his shoulders as she strode right up to the shocked nobles, seemingly unharmed. He refrained from pulling her away and asking her about her condition for the sake of the desperate situation they were all in. If she felt well enough to have a go at Anora in both Dalish and the common tongue, he figured, she couldn’t be seriously harmed.  
Of course he had underestimated her willpower – or her anger? - as the same moment they were alone she simply collapsed on the ground, barely caught by Alistair and himself. He had put his honour away for second, leaving it to the other man to carry the unconscious elf to her room. The former Crow could lift her, yes, but with all the armour it would have been an arduous task. So he left her with her brother-in-arms and went to search for Wynne instead. 

The elderly healer had nearly run into Mahariel’s room, robes flying and then slamming the door in Alistair’s and his surprised faces. After an hour or so the mage silently stepped outside again, putting a finger on her lips. There were no major wounds, she explained, but the Warden needed sleep. They should better give her some rest and instead tend to the problems at hand.  
Of course Zevran did not follow her suggestion for long and so he snuck into her room as soon as possible. He knew their leader too well; she would not find sleep until dawn; if she managed to doze off, she’d only wake up again screaming. The Archdemon was too near, the Darkspawn horde too numerous. He is sure Wynne had healed her properly, so the abrasions must have been all the way down to her flesh to leave marks. They might not always agree, but he fully trusts the elderly woman’s abilities in magic.  
“It’s fine, Zev.” Mahariel’s voice pulls him out of his dark thoughts. Shocked, he looks down and finds himself still circling her wrists with his fingers, pressing hard enough to hurt her. The elf lets go of her instantly, skidding backwards to give her some space. But she wraps her arms around him again, holding him tight. Suddenly it seems as if he is the one who needs to be comforted.  
“No, it’s definitely not fine. I should have been there to protect you. We all should.” There is a picture flashing through his mind, Rinna on her knees, head pulled back and Taliesin’s knife at her throat. Instinctively he pulls her closer, fists clenching into the thin linen cloth of her shirt.  
“Zev, don’t. I went with them willingly, it was the easiest way. Don’t blame yourself, it’s not worth it.” Her voice is steady, a bit sad as well, but mostly tired.  
It does not calm him, though, but whatever he wanted to tell her is cut off when she leans closer, bringing her lips to his ear. “It’s not worth it. You cannot change what already happened and there’s no way to kill someone who’s already dead.” She laughs a little at the last part, low and bitter. “They did not torture me, Ancestors be praised. I managed to get out before that. It just turned out I’m not doing well with chains.”  
“You panicked?” He saw the other elf go rampant once, when a group of Darkspawn managed to corner her in the Deep Roads. If the Dalish acted similar earlier today, he was amazed she did not break her wrists as well.  
“I tried to strangle my escort with them, to be more exact.” He cannot see it but he knows she’s baring her teeth now. A habit of hers maybe picked up from the wolf she always seems to keep around. He found it rather disturbing at first, but caught himself mirroring it lately.  
“Might have broken a few noses as well”, she adds after a short pause, as if deep in thought. “I also think I bit one of the cell’s guards while escaping.”  
“They deserved it.” It’s a grim satisfaction, but knowing the men defeated or even dead allows him to swallow the anger down. He might have not been there to protect her, but his fighting lessons seem to bear fruit. Never to speak of how hard it is to keep a furious Dalish out of your face, anyways. “You did very well.”  
She only nods, freeing her left hand and weaving her fingers into his hair. Gently she pulls down his head until their foreheads touch. Wynne must have urged her to take a bath, he realizes, as she smells like soap and water and not like pine needles and leather as she normally does. They stay like this for what seems like an eternity, eyes closed and breaths slowing down eventually.  
It is her who speaks again: “What’s in those mugs? Did you sneak something from the fancy dinner I missed?” She’s clearly trying to change the subject to something more marginal, and he is willing to let her do so for now. Maybe it’s a discussion for when both of them are less agitated and – most important – less tired. So he lets go of her, stretching to reach the two mugs. Just as expected, the tea is not even lukewarm anymore.  
“Not really.” With a quick sip he identifies which mugs holds which contents before putting one of them in her hands. “Here, that’s yours. Sorry, it’s cold already.”  
She lifts it to her face and he can hear her sniffing at the liquid before drinking.  
“That’s the drugged one, am I right?” His breath catches for a second, but she laughs, a real laugh this time, melodic and loud enough to wake both the dog and the wolf.  
“You’re loosing your edge, my dear Crow.” With a few deep swallows she gulps the whole thing down, shaking herself at the bitterness of the herbs. “Your mark is starting to predict your actions.”  
“Well, as long as you are drinking it anyways, I don’t mind” he chuckles, sipping from his mug of nettle tea. He hadn’t been sure how she would take it, but this might be the very last night the Warden actually could dare to sleep for several hours and he had wanted to make sure she would do just that.  
“I appreciate it, really. I didn’t dare to ask Wynne for it and I have no idea where you guys put my equipment.” She yawns, rubbing her cold feet together. “Will you wait until I’m asleep?”  
“I will.” With her eyes half closed, tousled hair and linen nightclothes she reminds him of a sleepy kitten. Or a puppy, as she undoubtedly would prefer. As gentle as he can Zevran untangles himself from her grasp, gathering the elf up in his arms and carrying her towards the bed.  
“I don’t like beds” she muses half-heartedly as he carefully drops her down in the middle of the mattress before trying to find the missing pillows and wrapping the blankets around her cold shoulders.  
“I know. But as much as I love you, I won’t sleep on the floor for the rest of my life because of your irrational dislike of any bedding above bare earth and fur rugs.” She tries to talk back but is cut off by her own yawning. Smiling, he gets rid of his boots and most of his clothes before slipping under the covers as well. The clicking sound of claws on the wooden floor and a sudden weight at the end of the bed tell him that Troll had joined them while the wolf went to guard the door. As much as he disliked the two canines in the beginning, they surely have their uses. She is as safe as she can possibly be right now.  
“I’ll show you all the positive aspects of a nice bed someday soon”, he says, one hand brushing her hair out of her face again, the other sliding the dagger underneath the pillows – just in case, he tells himself. “Until then you’ll survive one night in a bed without turning into a wimpy shem, believe me.” The Dalish gives out an approving hum as she huddles against him, her otherwise graceful movements already clumsy with sleep. Gently he runs his fingers through her hair, listening for her breathing to become slow and deep.  
Even more he is surprised as she suddenly starts giggling, eyes opening again.  
“You know, you just said you love me?” she slurs, flashing a smile. Before he can think of an answer the Warden’s eyelids fall shut again, her hand slipping limply from his shoulder as sleep finally catches up with her.  
Sighing Zevran presses his face into the nape of her neck, finally finding a spot where she still smells like leather and pines and a bit like him. And while she is fast asleep in his arms he stays awake until dawn, his thumb drawing endless cycles on the dagger’s hilt and his thoughts turning likewise in his head.


End file.
